What Once We Loved (37 page)

“What's that mean?” Mariah asked. “Pass the syrup, will you, Sarah?”

“Only that we don't remember things the way they really were. At least I don't think we do. We kind of form our own experience of it later. We think we remember it exact, but I'm convinced we don't. We get to have two experiences that way, for the price of one: what really happened, and what we remember. Most of us improve on the original, if it
was one we didn't like. ‘Course that means we've no excuse for carrying around bad memories because they can always be changed to better ones.” He grinned, then broke into an elocutionary voice as though he stood on a stage and declaimed.

“What once we loved is memory now, tangled up with time.

Rooted deep.

Cradled through experience, it seeks to warm us;

Stay off erosion of the wounded heart.”

They all sat staring, Matthew with his fork halfway to his mouth, the boys not chewing. “I'm still working on it,” he said. Lura had turned from the fire, spatula in hand, squinting as though to hear it all. Even Mariah had dreamy eyes.

Burke brought his hand down, cleared his throat, then stuffed a piece of Lura's johnnycake in his mouth. “There's more to it,” he said. “But I digress. So early of a morning.” A crumb made its way onto the day-old growth of his stubbled beard.

“That's lovely,” Ruth said.

“Who wrote it?” Jason asked.

“I take full blame, I do.” He wiped at his face now with the back of his hand, and Mariah quickly handed him her napkin.

“It makes me think of…” Ruth hesitated then continued, “my friend, Mazy Bacon. She's always been fascinated with words and what they mean. And with putting them together in interesting ways. It sounds to me like her. What you just said.”

“Manes
means good then,” Sarah said. “A good fortress.”

“So it does,” he said. “So it does. Like a solid home.”

“That's fitting for Mazy, too,” Mariah said. “Home means a lot to her.”

“Where does she live then, this friend of yours?”

“In Shasta City,” Ruth said. “But she came there from Wisconsin. With some reluctance. She's a widow.” She'd have to ask Mr. Manes to
write his poem down. It might be good to send it to Mazy, a way to open a gate a bad bull once closed.

They finished the meal, and Ned stepped out onto the porch to see if there was any change in the silver storm. If anything, the ice had grown thicker. Even the haystack had a sheen to it.

“Good thing we fed heavy yesterday,” Jason said.

“Horses don't look too hungry right now,” Mariah noted. The animals stood tails still, heads down, their backs a crystal mist and their noses white with ice. Ewald hadn't moved from where his head buried into the food bag. The paddock had been somewhat stomped down by the mares, but wherever they didn't stand, the ice had built up. The area between the cabin and the barn and lean-to shimmered in the foggy white. “It's getting colder,” Mariah said. “See my breath?”

“Silver thaws usually don't last much more than a day or two in this country. But that's because it rarely stays cold. This one looks to hang on,” Burke said.

“We can hold out for a week or more,” Lura said. “Plenty of supplies.”

“Feeding stock in this could be a trial,” Ruth said.

“One we'll have to enter into tomorrow whether we like it or not,” Matthew said.

“You'll have an extra hand at it, if you don't mind my staying a bit. Can't get far in this stuff.”

“Where was it you were heading?” Lura asked. “Folks going to be expecting you?”

“Wherever the Lord leads,” Burke said. “And folks rarely expect me. Actually, I'm your neighbor down a piece or two. Took a wrong turn.” He smiled, whispered to Sarah, “I wasn't lost, mind you. Just powerful turned around for a day or two.” To the rest he added, “I run some cattle. They're grazed out. And every traveling parson knows we're not really expected anywhere.”

“You're a preacher?” Ned asked.

“I help lead the little Table Rock Baptists' meeting up in town. You're welcome to join us.”

“We almost did,” Matthew said. “Before Jessie got sick.”

“Folks just seem to accept that a preacher will find his way to a hungering hearth.”

“Wonder what God thinks you need to be feeding us here?” Ruth said, then turned when her daughter awoke and called out.

15

Seth hadn't thought that his presence in Suzanne's life would be anything but temporary. He'd looked for a dry place to stay on a wet night, a friendly voice in a distant town. That was all. He should have located a hotel or simple boardinghouse and just stayed there. But when he arrived at Sister Esthers house where he and Mazy had visited earlier that year, he'd surprised himself with the level of disappointment he felt that Sister Esther wasn't there. Nor Miss Suzanne and her boys either.

He and Mazy and that bull had made their way with the directions given. He hadn't remembered Suzanne being so lovely as she was when Esther opened the door and Suzanne descended the stairs, inquiring who was there. She was still “seeing with new eyes,” and her enthusiasm somehow framed her face with a deeper beauty than he'd seen before. He shook his head. He hated thinking he'd done something to take that serenity away, just by staying on, just by stealing that kiss. And with the women doing good work like they were and him acting like a stream of water dousing a going fire.

He took his writing set out, tried to put his thoughts into words. Only dull and callow lines came out. He put the ink pen down, stared into the lamplight. How had he gotten to this?

He'd dragged the bull south as a favor to Mazy, mostly, and hadn't expected it would give him anything back. Life was fiinny that way. Elizabeth Mueller had told him that once, that giving away was the yeast in life. “It always raises more than it takes,” she'd said. “You get a whole
loaf of bread from just a little tiny cake of yeast. That's what we're asked to do in life, Seth Forrester. Take what we've been given, give it away, and wait for more to come back. That's what you did in bringing us to safety. Now the good Lord will bless you by giving back. If you let him. You independent men don't much like receiving. Always on the giving end, wanting to fix things.”

He'd scoffed at her, good-naturedly. Giving
was
easier than receiving. Any man knew that. It was a catalyst, she'd said, the way kindling built up a roaring fire or the way losing at poker for a few hands early could sweeten the final pot. No, not like that. He suspected Elizabeth would not approve of that analogy. That old woman with her baking heart had more wisdom wrapped up inside her pretzels than most padres in their catechisms. But she couldn't have known about his heart and how far away he stood from goodness, from being a worthy receiver.

See, here he was, bringing distress to Suzanne, all his “giving” meaning nothing. The man was just jealous, that was what Sterling Powder was. No need to be. Seth didn't intend anything. He was just a man helping a friend. And defending an unfair accusation of another. Still, what else could the man think but that he had intentions for Suzanne? Seth swallowed. Now where had that come from? A widow with two kids had no wish to intercept his wayward trail. Did they? And what about Powder?

Powder. Just a fluff of a name, but maybe the man himself had more substance. He had gotten Clayton to talk, after all. And the arrogance could camouflage a wounded soul.

Here it was well into January. He should have moved on. Maybe he was still reeling from Mazy's portrayal of their relationship.
More like a brother and sister.
That was what she'd said. If that was true, then what was this with Suzanne? There'd been something more in Suzanne's response to him than mere sisterhood. It was a passion. Had he drawn it from her? Or was she the yeast in what was yet to bake inside his own heart?

He stood up, paced the small guest room that held a bed with white flannel sheets and pillows with lace borders. A small writing desk sat beneath a window, and the light from the lamp flickered, a sign that the wick needed to be cut back. Seths mother always told him that the quality of the light depended on the wicks being cut back. Why had he thought ofthat?

He heard Esther go out. She was a hard worker, that Esther. He could put some of his money into what they were trying to do. The investment would be a better use of it than sweetening a poker pot. And it would give him cause to connect with Suzanne more too. So what stumbled him, kept him from jumping in with both feet free?

Gambling. All life was that, so why ruminate like an old horse on a mouthful of stale grain? Winning at faro or poker or roulette left all men thirsting for more of something that could never fill them up. At least not at a poker table.

He heard the boys in the nursery next door, little Sason chattering, and the low, staccato jabs of words that must have been Clayton. Those scamps should be asleep. He thought about those boys, the sweet warm way they smelled, inviting as a bedroll on a cold morning. “Men holding babies are as catching as a cold,” Elizabeth had said. A bell rang, and he heard the muffled voice of Sterling Powder. Probably telling the boys to quiet down. Two more days and that man would be gone. As far as Seth knew, Suzanne hadn't found any replacement. Maybe he should volunteer. He scoffed.

He pulled on his coat, brushed at the wide lapels, snapped his knuckles at the nap of his tall hat and pulled it onto his head. He needed some air, that was what it was. Fresh air.

A moon shown bright enough to make shadows as he walked. The light reflected on pools of water at the cobblestones, a thin layer of ice formed at the edges. The promise of cold that would disappear with the sun. He tripped on a tree root digging its way into the path, caught himself. He heard a pig grunt, a catfight begin and end in the distance. While he walked, he shook his head, turning his hands this way and
that. He rehearsed what he would say to Suzanne in his head.
All Fm saying is that Fm sorry my being here has meant some disruption for you. Wouldnt want to hurt you. Dont know if going or staying does that.
Would that confuse her? Did it say more than he intended?
I am who I am, is allFm saying. Not a perfect man. Not predictable.
What did a man say to a woman to move the caring forward when he didn't know for certain where his own heart was headed? A flash of lantern light flooded a circle of wet cobblestone before him. It illuminated his way for a moment, and then he walked right through. That was exactly how he felt: clarity for a second then stumbling on in darkness.

He tried to imagine what advice Elizabeth Mueller would give him about this. He had no mother to ask advice of, no father to show him the way, no brothers or sisters to cajole and correct him. He was an orphan just as sure as those Wintu Indian kids Mazy Bacon collected. Maybe that was what appealed to him about Mazy in the first place, that she took in strays. That was just what he was.

Well, he'd done his part in saving strays himself. He'd brought the women safely into Shasta City, and he'd placed a good chunk of his gambling winnings into Mazy's farm that now not only fed folks but was a place of business. Would Mazy think it was dirty money if she knew it came from gambling? He hoped not. She could take something unworthy and make it good. She had a soul for that. It was probably as close as he would get to sainthood. He snorted. He hadn't realized he hankered after sainthood. Now that was a losing gamble.

He looked up when he heard the music. Front Street. Bursts of laughter and the thump of feet tapping in time led him forward. Behind the tall doors of the brick building stood croupiers and dealers at blackjack and roulette tables. Smoke swirled like mist around them. Voices rattled the chandelier above the faro table, and heavy red drapes muffled the music of the five women dressed in pink playing cellos and fiddles onstage. There'd been a theater around here once, he'd been told, taken out by one of the floods.

A woman approached him. Dressed all in black except for a red
satin flower attached to the side of her hip, a green stem trailing to the floor. She sidled up to him. “Looks like you know your way around.” She fiddled with the diamond stickpin in his lapel, caressed his chest with the palm of her hand. He felt her heat against his leg. “Buy a girl a drink? Make you one happy man being kind to a needy girl.”

He looked down at her. Was this his life then? Even without wishing to, this was what he drifted toward, wasn't it? He found his way here, when he sought direction, here to this den of drunken men and wasted women.

No, he hadn't sought it. He'd allowed himself to drift. That was what he did. Drift like a fishing line through a pool. These people before him represented the relationships he was capable of: shallow, temporary, depleting. He was a drifter. Well dressed, rich in worldly goods perhaps, but a drifter just the same.

She pressed against him. She smelled of whiskey and sweat. Face powder, mixed with lip rouge, caked at the corners of her mouth. A critter wiggled next to the fan spread open in her black hair.